


i've been there a thousand times

by dirtmemer



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Divergence, Iwaizumi Quits Also, M/M, Mental Health Issues, My Dumb Boys, Oikawa Quits, Possible Codependency, Seventeen Year Olds Tired of The World, They Are Both Trying, mild violence, they have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtmemer/pseuds/dirtmemer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” you say as gently as you can. “Hey, Iwa-chan, are you crying?” </p><p>“What the fuck do you think,” he says wetly. </p><p>“I'm sorry for accusing you, and getting mad at you, and hitting you,” you say, truthfully, sincerely. As sincere as you can get. “Iwa-chan, hey. Iwa-chan. I want to make up. Can we make up?” </p><p>“Yeah,” he says, from behind his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've been there a thousand times

**Author's Note:**

> _You hate your pulse because it thinks you're still alive_  
>  _And everything's wrong_  
>  _It just gets so hard sometimes_  
>  _Be calm._  
>  \--Be Calm, Fun.

“If you're quitting volleyball,” Iwa-chan says, one night, when the both of you are hanging out at his place, his parents off on a trip to somewhere fancy and romantic, and you're trying to get him to watch Alien vs Predator with you, and he drops this out of nowhere. “If you're quitting, so am I,” he says, casual as anything, like it doesn't _mean_ anything, like he hasn't given half of his life and more to the game, to the team, to you. 

“Honestly, Iwa-chan,” you say, as smoothly as you can manage. It comes out wrong, anyways, all choked and upset. “What the _fuck_ are you saying?” 

He shrugs. “I don't want to play anymore,” he says, like he's commenting on the weather or some unremarkable detail in his life, another etch in his day. Just another thing to say.

Your hand moves involuntarily, and you grab his face, your fingers digging grooves into the sides of his jaw, angry red marks blooming on his skin. Like you, right now, you're angry, you're furious. “Iwaizumi,” you say, and he'd said it himself, _if you quit volleyball_. If _you_ do it. “What kind of folie-à-deux bullshit are you giving me right now? You'll quit because I quit, what are you, five?” 

“Fuck you,” he says, all deadly and calm, every word like the nick of a knife. “Fuck you Oikawa, you have no fucking right.” 

“ _My_ problems,” you all but yell. “ _My_ fucking problems, Iwaizumi, are _none of your business_.” 

“Have you ever fucking considered-” he shouts at you, his face bright with a sort of mania. “-that you're not the only fucking person in the world to have fucking issues!” 

“ _What issues?_ ” you shout back at him. He's never _told_ you, he's never said anything. Maybe you should have known, you probably _should_ have known, and it all tangles up into a knot of desperation and frustration and you take it out on him. 

“Issues that matter less than yours, apparently!” he screams. 

You make a noise between a shriek and a growl, a strangled choking thing scraping up the sides of your larynx, and you headbutt him right in the nose. He cries out, his eyes going wide and shocked, but Iwaizumi is still Iwaizumi, and he recovers fast enough to land a neat punch on your solar plexus. You fall back, winded. He bares his teeth at you, a vicious caltrop snarl, and you flash your own fucking incisors straight back at him and bite his arm. He yanks at your hair; you bite him again, somewhere different, you forget where, and then somehow you're kissing him. He tastes like blood and anger. He's apoplectic and fucking beautiful. 

He bites your mouth ragged. “Fuck,” he says, his breathing jagged and unsteady, his hand still fisted in your hair. “Fuck, Oikawa-” 

Your mouth finds the dip of his throat and you sink your teeth in, there, and he tilts his head back, for you. “I'm sorry,” you say, quickly, breathlessly. “You're right, I'm sorry- I was being selfish. I just. Did it really mean so little, to you?” 

He's quiet. He lets go of your hair, presses his hands to his face. He trembles, short sharp shivers pressed right up against you, and you think, you think- oh. 

“No,” he says, one tiny single syllable, his voice quavering. You think he might be crying. You don't want him to cry. 

“Hey,” you say as gently as you can. “Hey, Iwa-chan, are you crying?” 

“What the fuck do you think,” he says wetly. 

“I'm sorry for accusing you, and getting mad at you, and hitting you,” you say, truthfully, sincerely. As sincere as you can get. “Iwa-chan, hey. Iwa-chan. I want to make up. Can we make up?” 

“Yeah,” he says, from behind his hands. 

You pry his hands away from his face. He's bleeding, a slow trickle of blood from his nose. How very nostalgic. His face is all wet and shiny with blood and tears and snot. You want to kiss him again. You want to love him forever. 

You kiss his cheek. “I'm sorry for disregarding you,” you say, holding his hands in yours. Your fingers fit neatly into the creases of his fingers. His hands are trembling too, minutely, like he's scared and expecting you to- you don't know. 

“It's okay,” he mumbles, and he crumples against you, half crawling into your lap, his face pressing against your shoulder. He sniffles noisily, wiping his blood on your shirt. You let him do it. 

“Is it really?” you press. Because, okay, Iwa-chan is kind and lovely and a total martyr. He'd burn himself down to the bones if you asked. And you'd never ask, but then he'd do it anyways. He'd keep his problems locked up forever if he could, and you wish he wouldn't. You wish he'd tell you things. You wish he'd trust you. “Iwa-chan, it's okay if it's not okay. I was an asshole, you don't have to hold back because you're scared of hurting me.” He'd never hurt you, not on purpose. You know this like you know the back of your hand, like you know, for sure, that he's pretty much just miserable all over. 

He goes still. Then, after a very long pause, he says, “You're always hurting,” his voice small and desolate and a little too sad. “I don't- I don't want to be-” 

“Iwa-chan,” you say. “You're being kind of dumb!” 

“Shut up,” he says automatically. A reflex. He hits you on your chest, weakly. A show. 

“You don't owe me anything,” you say. “You know that, right? 

“I know,” he says, a little too polite and a little too quiet. He rests his head on your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you say. “That's good.” He's stopped crying. That's good too. 

He tilts his head at you. “I want-” he says, and stops. His very own method of distraction. And people call _you_ elusive. 

You run your tongue over your teeth and breathe in. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” he says. 

You lean in and kiss him, slowly. He kisses you back very kindly, his mouth soft and pliant, and it's all sloppy and gross and nice. He's solid and warm in your lap, and he is lovely like this. He is lovely all the time. 

“Tooru,” he says. Two syllables, gentle and melting on his tongue. You haven't heard your name from his lips in a while. It's nostalgic, sort of. He slips his hands daringly up your shirt, and you gasp. The curve of his cheek is beautiful. Gorgeous, your terror of a lover. 

“Can I-” you ask, and he says, quickly, eagerly, planting messy kisses all over your face, your neck, the dip of your collarbone, “Yes, yes, Tooru-” 

“We should-,” you say, and your voice cracks a little. He doesn't laugh. Instead, he looks at you with his lively eyes and you curl your head in the circle of his arms. 

“Bedroom,” he finishes for you. “Yeah, good, we _should_ -”

“Oh god,” you say, half-embarrassed, a lot turned on. You know what he's doing. But still, he's so eager. He's so cute. 

He hauls you to your feet, dragging you upstairs, all quick and efficient. “Come on,” he says, tugging at your shirt impatiently, pulling you inside his room. He's already wrestling his shirt off, all smooth lines and sharp planes. 

“Slow down,” you say in the midst of taking off your own shirt. “Hajime, slow down.” 

“Sorry,” he says, flushed and fuzzy and pretty. He tips into your lap, settling there affectionately. His kisses are warm and clean, a part of him, a part of something better, more important. He holds your face between his hands and he covers every inch of your face with kisses. You giggle. 

“I really like you,” you tell him. He smiles, the smear of dried blood right under his nose, utterly charming and too adorable. 

“I really like you too,” he says. You thumb at the tear tracks drying on his skin. You hope he'll talk to you, after this. After everything. You'll listen. You'll let him pour himself out into you. You'll let him do anything. 

He grinds his hips against yours, losing himself in the transient pleasures of the flesh. He's running away, changing the subject, from the moment he kissed you downstairs. You know this, and you don't mind. You don't really mind, as long as he trusts you. You take him and he lets you: you fuck him raw and desperate and squirming in your lap, against your mouth, against your skin. He is so very lovely. 

You make sure to kiss him with everything you have. _I care, I care, I care,_ you say, with your mouth on his, tongue against tongue until he kisses back like he's saying, _I know. I know._

Afterwards, he cuddles up to you. 

“Will you listen to me?” he asks, with his legs tangled with yours. Pressed up against you. 

You find the bruises you've left on his skin. Every indent of your teeth. Every mark. You trace them with your fingers. Skin against skin. 

“Of course,” you say.


End file.
